


Fireworks

by shittershutter



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Brief mentions of PTSD, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 09:41:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13268781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittershutter/pseuds/shittershutter
Summary: “You like them, the fireworks.” Tommy digs his hands under the man’s sweater, gets them squeezed between the warm wool and even warmer flesh. “And I like you.”





	Fireworks

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授翻】 Fireworks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13333191) by [psychomath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomath/pseuds/psychomath)



> Merry Christmas. Or something. 
> 
> * Unbetad. Sorry.

“Bed?” 

Tommy finishes Gibson’s bourbon and shakes his head resolutely. His watch gives him another two minutes to brace himself, so he takes a deep breath and straddles the man, burrowing the jaw into his shoulder.

He settles and stares into the darkness behind them as Gibson looks forward into the night sky, his body tense with anticipation. 

“Let’s go to bed,” Gibson repeats softly. “I’ll pull down the curtains, wrap you up in a blanket. It'll be all quiet and cozy.”

“You like them, the fireworks.” Tommy digs his hands under the man’s sweater, gets them squeezed between the warm wool and even warmer flesh. “And I like you.”

Gibson is about to respond when the sky outside their window explodes with colors, and they both hold their breaths for entirely different reasons.

The loud rolling sound makes their window panes shake, and Tommy’s entire body vibrates with them. It’s purely physical, so detached from the place his mind is at he can barely trace it back where it belongs, to the trenches. Where the stench of the rotting wet ground, the blood, and the decaying flesh would fill his nostrils until, for years, it seemed, he couldn't smell anything else at all. 

He pushes his face into Gibson’s neck, panicking, suffocating himself with his smell, heavy and musky, accented with tobacco and sweat just a pinch. Breathes the man in until his head is spinning with it. 

“Darling,” he blurts out. “Darling, I…” 

The arms wrap around him, loose enough to give space to move around, and Tommy goes limp as the lights burst around them, green and red they must be because it’s Christmas. That’s the occasion, Tommy remembers with the wadding his brain has turned into. Those are not the screams he hears between the rounds; those are songs.

* * * 

_It catches them on the street the first time, the fiery explosion of light so high above but still so deafening, and Tommy stops in his tracks abruptly. Freezes in place rather, gone from the present altogether. He sees Gibson then, looking up with a massive grin on his face, so broad Tommy doesn’t recognize him at first._

_He sees him young at that moment, gone from _the now_ , too, but to some different, happier times. Times Tommy doesn’t know him from. The color spots dance on his face, flashing, merging one into the other, and Tommy squeezes his eyes shut to imprint that image on the back of his eyelids forever. _

_Then Gibson takes Tommy’s hand right there, in the middle of the square, for anyone to see. The coldness of his fingers startles him, makes him bring them to his mouth quickly._

_“What the fuck are you doing?” Tommy hisses in complete bewilderment as the breath burns his skin and the lips soothe it. But Gibson can’t really hear him, and the crowd is looking up at the bright flowers in the sky, so he gives up fighting and keeps his hand against Gibson's mouth, where it belongs._

* * *

The air between the firework rounds is so dark, so inky black that Tommy’s eyes can’t adapt at once. So he watches Gibson with the tips of his fingers when he collects himself enough to untangle himself and lean back. The sharp shape of his jaw, the hard circles of his eye sockets and the contrasting softness of the puffy flesh under the eyes. 

He gets to the hair, black as the night around them, that curls around his fingers and doesn’t let him go. He has to kiss the man to bribe his way out.

The new dose of explosions hits the air, yellow and blue this time, with splashes of pink here and there and he’s so distracted with staring at its reflection in Gibson’s eyes he forgets to flinch and if he shivers it’s because the man’s groin is directly underneath his pushing up a little. 

If Gibson mentions the bed one more time Tommy will bite him, he swears, as he grinds down in a slow circle. Slow and steady, just to make him leak, to feel the moisture spreading across the thin fabric of his underwear as the length of his cock is hardening underneath. 

Their fucking is no longer frantic, desperately sad affair when at least one of them inevitably starts crying in the middle of it, the only communication tool they have. The only source of joy they give and give to each other until they’re sore; until Tommy is seriously convinced they become a single body, four hands, three and a half legs. 

It’s slow, thick and sweet like flower honey. A hot dripping mess they engage in. Like they have decades more to live, thousands of nights more to share. 

Gibson speaks to him in French through it all, so fucking shy despite everything he's ever done to Tommy before, hiding behind the language barrier when he needs to compliment the way the younger man’s arse feels as it slides down his cock.

Tommy just moans and pretends he doesn’t understand half of the epithets for soft, and hot and tight while his French is close to perfect, pronunciation aside, mind you.

He speaks French back at Gibson once, and the man comes just like that, the moment Tommy is done with his own selection of epithets for hard, and long, and big. Then he blushes at a mere sight of Tommy for a week. So moaning will have to do.

He gasps when Gibson angles him just right in his lap, making his toes curl and his cock jump in a tight space between their stomachs. It’s pitch dark around but behind his eyelids Tommy can see the man clear as day: the soft green of his eyes, the flushed cheeks and the sudden flash of his timid smile. 

He is smiling now, shaky fingers framing Tommy’s face like he too after all these years can’t quite believe Tommy is alive, Tommy is here, gasping into his face uncontrollably and scratching his shoulders with the dirty bitten nails. 

Fireworks end and in defeating silence, disturbed by dogs and lonely drunks outside, Gibson spreads his thighs wider and fucks into the lean body above him, strong and deep. 

Tommy wraps himself around the man, hands, and knees digging, cock sliding against the soft curve of his stomach and comes in a white-hot rush, quickly and hopelessly as he did the first time Gibson ever made love to him, so long ago. 

He is about to spit out something self-deprecating when the man leans in and shuts him up with a tongue in his mouth, his hand sliding between them to circle Tommy’s wet cock loosely and stay there. Gibson thrusts up at him so hard the force of it echoes up the younger man’s spine. Breathless and burning, Tommy flows with it. 

Tommy just moans and pretends he doesn’t understand half of the epithets for beloved, and sweet and mine. As hoarse foreign words assault his eardrum, he cradles Gibson’s head against his shoulder as the come is cooling inside of him, and for the millionth time, he whispers back: “ I know, love. Me too.”


End file.
